


A Simple Touch

by leonidaslion



Category: Dead Zone, Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Psychic Abilities, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-10
Updated: 2011-04-10
Packaged: 2017-10-17 22:11:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/181762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leonidaslion/pseuds/leonidaslion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's savior is too beautiful to be true, and too mysterious for either of their own goods ...</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Simple Touch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [navlasha](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=navlasha).



> The prompt was "chase, mystery", and the requested 'verse was a SPN/Dead Zone crossover.

John still wasn’t entirely sure just who the man he had invited back for drinks and a shower was, which was strange for him these days. Actually, these days it was strange for him to be have anyone over his place at all, with the exception of Bruce, who showed up four days a week to torment John with physical therapy, and Reverend Purdy, who wanted to talk about John’s Purpose, and Sarah, who didn’t know when to leave well enough alone. He knew what each of them would say, if they knew what he was doing.

They’d use different words, of course—and Sarah would give him that befuddled, hurt look that made him feel sheepish and guilty even when he hadn’t done anything to deserve it—but it would all come down to the same question: have you completely lost your mind?

As he pushed open the door and stepped inside, John admitted that the answer to that was probably yes. Because things like the oversized, mutant rat creature that had attacked him less than an hour ago didn’t— _couldn’t_ —exist. It wasn’t possible.

 _Neither are you_ , he reminded himself, and held the door open as his knight in leather jacket followed him in. The man’s shoes—heavy, black things that looked like they had ambitions of being boots when they grew up—clunked on the polished wood floor. John got a whiff of the man as he passed—or, more accurately, he got a whiff of rat castoff—and had to bite back a surge of bile.

Luckily, his hero was too busy casing the house to notice. He whistled, low and impressed, and his hand went up to the back of his neck in what was obviously some kind of nervous gesture. It came down pretty quickly as soon as his fingers came in contact with the slick, jelly-like substance that he was all but covered in, though.

“Nice place,” the man said, wiping his fingers uselessly on his pants. “You rich?”

“I get by,” John answered, shutting the door. His heart hammered nervously in his chest and he sternly told it to sit down and be quiet. If this man had wanted to hurt him, all he would have had to do was wait a few more seconds longer before driving a machete through the rat thing’s chest.

The man made a hmming sound in the back of his throat and picked up a small, ceramic figurine of a shepherdess with her flock. John’s mother had added that to her collection of religious trinkets while he was busy playing vegetable, and he supposed it was worth upwards of three thousand dollars, but he didn’t feel any anxiety watching his hero turn the figurine over in his hands. The man was too competent: his hands too sure. He wasn’t going to drop it.

“Yeah, you’re loaded,” the man grunted as he put the figurine back down. He didn’t sound resentful or calculating the way John half-expected he would: just matter-of-fact.

John’s years as a teacher had taught him to glean information from the most casual of surface details, and six years spent in a coma hadn’t changed that. The man’s car was a classic and well cared for, but his jeans were ripped and worn thin at the knees, and there were tiny holes in the stomach of his Judas Priest t-shirt. The leather jacket was creased and worn enough that it had to be a hand-me-down. The necklace around his neck looked beat up and old, and hung from a simple leather cord. What really tipped John off, though, was something in the man’s face: a lean, hungry look that said he wasn’t eating regularly or well. As far as John could tell, his hero had been living on the ragged edge for a while now, but somehow he’d managed to escape the bitter resentment that so often accompanied destitution.

As he took in the strong, angular line of the man’s jaw, the clean line of his neck, John’s fingers itched inside his gloves. For the first time in months, he wanted to touch. He wanted to reach through the layers of cloth and skin and uncover the truth behind the man-shaped mystery standing in his front hall.

Good grief, he really was losing it.

John realized that the man was turning around again and hastily plastered what he hoped was a reasonable expression on his face. Whatever he managed must have been good enough because the man gave him a grin and said, “I’m sending you my cleaning bill, just so you know. Gonna have to have my baby reupholstered after this one, and that shit ain’t cheap.” His grin slid down into a grimace as he wrinkled his nose in a way that John probably shouldn’t have found endearing. “Speaking of rat funk, you said something about a shower?”

“Upstairs,” John agreed. He was relieved to hear that his voice was coming out normally. “You can use the master bathroom. Fourth door on the left.”

His hero nodded but didn’t move for the stairs. The smile was back, bigger than before but twisted in a way John didn’t care for. It had a hard edge: cynical and self-deprecating.

“You gonna escort me to make sure I don’t steal anything?” the man asked, watching him steadily.

There had been a boy in John’s sophomore biology class the year before the accident. His name had been Gary Haynes, and he’d been in and out of almost ten different foster homes before winding up in Cleaves Mills. John hadn’t known for sure whether there had been abuse, but he had suspected it. The boy had been like a dog that had been kicked one too many times: mistrustful of every small kindness John offered and continually searching for the hidden catch.

This man reminded him of Gary.

“Actually, I was thinking of ordering pizza. Do you want some?” As if John couldn’t hear the man’s stomach rumbling at the prospect of food from over here.

“Wouldn’t turn it down,” the man answered. He was all confident smiles and poise on the surface again, but John could still see Gary in his eyes. Those cagey, too-pretty green eyes.

“I usually get pineapple and onions,” John announced. The man’s smile didn’t so much slip as it stiffened, going brittle at the edges. John didn’t think the man was aware of it—and wouldn’t be too happy if he knew how he looked, either—so he pretended not to notice as he continued, “But I’ve been told that forcing other people to eat that borders on barbaric, so what do you say to pepperoni?”

A wrinkle furrowed the man’s forehead for a moment and then smoothed out again. “Your usual’s fine,” he said. The words held a certain amount of stubborn anger, as though John had offered a dare instead of dinner.

“You sure?” John checked.

“You buying?” the man shot back.

“Well, I figure I owe you a few slices for saving my bacon back there,” John answered. He realized that he had slipped into his teacher persona: all good will and easy, ‘trust me, I’m harmless’ vibes. It felt strange and vaguely uncomfortable, like putting on an old suit that hadn’t been worn in years and now fit a little too snug across the belly. “I’m John by the way. John Smith.”

He expected a disbelieving stare at that, or maybe a snicker and a ‘yeah, right’, but instead the man nodded and said, “Yeah, I know.”

“You do?”

“Sure,” the man answered, rolling his shoulders. He looked completely relaxed again. “Been following you around for the last three days waiting for Rizzo to get hungry enough to make his move.” At John’s blank stare, he prompted, “You know: giant rat? Really foul smelling? Tried to chew your face off?”

“Oh,” John said. His stomach turned a little at the reminder. He supposed he’d be having some kind of panic attack if he wasn’t in shock right now.

“I was starting to think you weren’t the tasty treat everyone was advertising,” the man added.

“Tasty treat,” John repeated.

“Darvs are real finicky eaters,” his hero told him off-handedly. “Got a thing for psychics.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” There was a moment of awkward silence where they both looked anywhere but at each other and then the man gave a little cough and said, “So, I’m gonna go shower before I get a real good whiff of myself and puke on your floor.” He turned toward the stairs, already stripping off his leather jacket.

“Do you have a name?” The words were out of John’s mouth before he realized how stupid they were. Of _course_ the man had a name.

His hero didn’t even pause in his trek up the stairs: just tossed, “James Dean,” over his shoulder as he went. His voice was warmer than it had been all night and held a hint of laughter. John would have bet another six years of his life that it wasn’t the man’s real name—one improbable name between the two of them was more than enough—but it was at least better than ‘mysterious hero who saved my life’.

Rubbing his fingers together again, he stared after James and wondered what sorts of things he’d see if he went back outside and ran a gloveless hand over the black car sitting in his driveway. Probably nothing he wanted to see. There weren’t likely to be puppies and rainbows in “James’” past.

After a few moments, John curled his right hand into a fist and headed into the kitchen to order the pizza.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Forty minutes later, the pizza finally arrived. James still hadn’t emerged from upstairs, although John had heard the shower shut off a few minutes ago. He greeted the delivery boy—who turned out to be, in fact, the delivery _girl (Krissy Wilcox from two blocks over: her mother used to babysit John)_ —while staring at his savior’s car over the kid’s shoulder. He wasn’t so preoccupied that he didn’t notice Krissy’s sudden intake of breath, though. She was staring past him into the house with a dazed, flushed expression, and John’s stomach rolled nervously.

 _Don’t turn around,_ a voice told him. _Get out now while you still can._

But in the end he just couldn’t help himself.

James was standing at the bottom of the stairs wearing that odd necklace and a ratty, grey pair of John’s sweats. The sweats hung low on his waist—John wasn’t short, but he was broader than this man around the middle, and that made all the difference—and were worn enough that they didn’t leave a whole lot to the imagination. The fact that James hadn’t bothered pilfering a shirt as well left even _less_ to the imagination, and John found himself surprised by just how lithe the man was.

Both the jacket and James’ broad shoulders had conspired to deceive him before, painting an image in John’s head of bulging muscles on a heavy frame. James was lean, though: muscles compact and streamlined for speed. There was a promise of bulk in his frame, but James hadn't finished growing into it yet, and John mentally subtracted about five years off of his age.

It took him a moment to look past the sheer beauty of James’ body to the overlying damage, and then he was staring for an entirely different reason. He was familiar with scars, of course—had more than a few of his own these days—but this man’s skin made John’s look practically pristine. James’ chest was all but covered with thin, white lines and shiny burn marks and something that looked like a dog bite … if, that was, dogs were the size of small horses and had three-inch long fangs. One of the scars—rough-edged and of undeterminable origin—curved around his right nipple in a way that told John he’d come close to losing the tiny nub altogether.

John thought of Gary again, and the specter of abuse reared its head, and then he thought of the rat thing and didn’t know _what_ to think except that maybe this was why James gave off that air of poverty. Maybe all of his money went to paying hospital bills.

James was busy toweling his hair with an oversized, fluffy towel and hadn’t noticed them staring yet, but he was going to in a few seconds. John told himself to turn away, or at least try to cultivate an air of casual normalcy, but either was impossible right now. He couldn’t remember how to do anything but stand there _looking_ while his hands ached with a longing to brush along that pale skin. It wouldn’t take much, just a moment, and then he would know the answers to all the questions that were making his skull feel about three sizes too small.

James finished with the towel and lowered his hands. He looked over and immediately met John’s gaze. His face remained neutral for a moment, and then a puzzled line appeared between his eyebrows. He didn’t look away, but his shoulders rolled uncomfortably beneath the scrutiny.

The movement—shifting muscles on that toned torso—drove a soft sound out of Krissy and James’ eyes flickered to her. The lines of tension that had been creeping into his body eased immediately and he slipped on one of those broad, gut-warming grins. It was almost frightening how quickly he was able to stuff that complex, fascinating personality _(of which John knew he was only catching the barest edges)_ back behind what John was beginning to suspect was nothing more than a mask.

“Pizza’s here? Sweet, I’m fucking starving.” Tossing the towel on the staircase railing, James came forward. He moved with an easy fluidity that sent an envious bolt of pain through John’s right hip. The scars were even more obvious up close, John noticed, and hmm, freckles.

Good lord, he hadn’t reacted this strongly to anyone other than Sarah in a long time, and never to anyone _male_. He wasn’t even sure that his attraction to James was about sex. It was just the enigma that the man presented: those contradicting glimpses of vulnerability combined with his tough, careless attitude and his easy-going façade. Not that James wasn’t easy on the eyes …

 _Jesus Christ, Johnny: get a grip,_ he told himself firmly as James shouldered up next to him in the doorway. James’ grin went momentarily sharkish and smug as he took the pizza boxes from Krissy and balanced them effortlessly on one palm.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” he said, and then gave her a wink. It should have been corny as hell, but instead made Krissy blush and drop her eyes.

“You’re uh, welcome,” she managed, and the snuck a glance at John. There was an evaluating, questioning sort of look in her eyes that John didn’t understand. From the flicker of recognition on James’ face, though, his hero was more than familiar with it.

“Hope you don’t mind me raiding your closet, cuz,” he said to John, drawing Krissy’s attention back to him. His gaze shifted to take her in as he explained, “I keep spilling shit on my clothes. Didn’t factor in my clumsiness when I was packing to visit cousin Johnny here.”

And John realized, suddenly, what this had to look like. He’d never been terribly good at hiding his emotions, and embarrassment—more at the fact that it had taken him so long to catch on than from Krissy’s assumption itself—made his face heat.

Krissy shouldn’t have bought into the ‘clumsy cousin’ story—not with the way James had been moving and with the way he was still holding the pizzas with effortless poise—but somehow she did anyway, nodding and admitting that she was a bit of a klutz herself. Her immediate acceptance might have had something to do with her preoccupation with James’ hipbones, which were prominent and touchable above the waistband of the sweats.

“So, uh, how long are you visiting for?” she asked, looking at James from beneath lowered lashes.

James’ posture went even looser as he flashed that blinding grin and said, “Well, I was supposed to leave tomorrow, but I think my stay just got extended.” As if the leer in his voice weren’t enough to give him away, the way his gaze moved appreciatively up and down her body left little doubt just what he was after.

Luckily, John always had the money ready beforehand these days: digging around in his wallet while wearing gloves was both difficult and embarrassing. Grabbing Krissy’s wrist, he pressed the five and the twenty into her hand.

“Thanks for the pizza,” he said, voice too loud and brusque. Oh well, he could always apologize later. “Tell your mom I said hi,” he added before Krissy could respond, and then gripped James’ upper arm and pushed him back into the house.

“What the—” James started, and then they were far enough inside for John to slam the door shut. Half a heartbeat later, James shook free of his grip and demanded, “What the hell, dude? I was totally in there.”

“She’s eighteen!” John told him, exasperated. True, James probably wasn’t much older than that himself, but he … well, he _seemed_ older. He seemed a little too dangerous to be messing around with Emma Wilcox’s little girl.

“And?” James said, glowering. “That’s totally legal.”

“She’s still in _high school_.”

“Jesus Christ, you sound like—” James stiffened and shut his mouth with a snap, irritation vanishing behind a blank mask.

“Sound like who?” John asked.

“A panty-assed killjoy,” James answered. His voice was as flat as his eyes.

It was a lie, and John was tempted to call him on it, which was what brought him to a stumbling halt. They weren’t actually cousins: weren’t even friends. John didn’t know James from Adam, and if James wanted to play with fire in the form of Emma Wilcox’s wrath, that was his own business. So were any lies he wanted to tell.

So then why was John reacting so strongly?

He caught himself staring at the faint, light brown trail of hair on James’ stomach leading from his belly button down to … Okay. Yeah, that might be one explanation. Except for how he hadn’t looked at another man crossways before. Ever.

 _Never met anyone quite like James before either, have you?_

James shifted beneath John’s gaze and cut his eyes to one side self-consciously. Gripping the sweats in one hand, he tried tugging them up into a more respectable position, but the fabric dropped back down as soon as he released it. The attempt at concealment only made his hipbones more noticeable, and John was in really hot water here because he’d been caught looking twice now and he still couldn’t make himself stop.

“So,” James said in what sounded like a carefully neutral tone of voice. “Which way to the kitchen?”

John shook himself free of his daze and retrieved his cane from the wall where he had leaned it to pay for the pizzas. “This way,” he said, and started down the hall. Behind him, James made no more noise than a cat would have: only the occasional creak of a floorboard gave him away. John was hyperaware of his own awkward, limping gait, and of the cane’s too-loud clunk on the wood floorboards.

When they reached the kitchen, James sped up to slip past John and put the boxes down on the counter. John was physically unable to stop himself from watching the man’s tapered hips. Three raised lines that looked suspiciously like claw marks ran from the small of James’ back down below the line of the sweat pants and, presumably, across his right ass cheek. From this angle, it was the man’s only visible scar: apparently he didn’t get hit from behind very often. John wasn't sure if that was a sign of bravery or stupidity.

“You seriously don’t mind, right?” James asked, glancing over his shoulder.

John hurriedly lifted his eyes. “What?”

“The sweats,” James clarified, tugging at the fabric again. “I would’ve asked first, but I was already in the shower when I realized that all my clothes were in the car, and I, uh, could’ve put my old stuff back on, but that’d kind of defeat the whole purpose of showering, you know?”

“It’s fine,” John assured him. “You can borrow a shirt too, if you want. Although I have to admit that my wardrobe’s about six years out of fashion.”

“Nah,” James said, shrugging. “I’m good. Wouldn’t turn down a run at your washer and drier before I head out, though.”

“Sure.”

“Awesome,” James grunted, nodding his head. Apparently considering the subject closed, he turned his attention back to the pizzas and flipped open one of the lids. He took one quick look inside and paused. Then, frowning, he slid the box aside and looked beneath the second lid.

“You got pepperoni.”

All of the easy charm James had been pouring on a moment ago had vanished, and suddenly the room felt about twenty degrees colder. For the first time, John was very aware of the fact that he was half-crippled and alone with a man who handled machetes like he’d been born with one in his hand.

Ignoring the impulse to limp as fast as he could for the door, he answered, “Yup.”

“Why?” James asked, except what he really wanted to know—what they always wanted to know, with the exception of Sarah and Bruce—was _‘Did you? Did you poke around in my head without asking?’_

“It doesn’t work like that,” John said, answering that unspoken question. “You just—you seemed a little on edge earlier, so I thought—”

“Yeah, well don’t,” James snapped. But the room warmed slightly, and when James dipped his hand inside a box, he came out holding a slice of pepperoni.

 _Let it go,_ John told himself, and normally that would have been enough. He wasn’t in the habit of chasing after people who didn’t want to be caught. Of course, tonight seemed determined to turn his life and his normal patterns of behavior inside out.

“Who is she?”

“Who’s what?” James grunted without looking at him, and then stuffed half the slice into his mouth.

 _Shut up, idiot._ “The woman who liked pineapple and onion on her pizza.”

James choked on the bite he’d just taken: caught between swallowing and laughing. John started forward, but before he had managed two clumsy steps, James pounded himself on the chest and managed to force the food down on his own. Still coughing a little, he turned to face John and leaned against the counter.

“Are you okay?” John asked.

James waved a hand at him— _yeah, fine, gimme a sec_ —and then took a minute or so to get himself under control. When he had recovered, he wiped the back of his hand across his watering eyes and said, “Whew! That’ll wake you up in the morning.”

John refrained from pointing out that it was actually nine o’clock at night and, bolstered by James’ apparent good cheer, instead asked again, “So who is she?”

James didn’t laugh this time, but he did smirk as he answered, “ _She’s_ my kid brother. He’s in college.” And then, with more than a hint of pride: “Stanford.”

“That’s a good school,” John commented, hobbling forward so he could get at the food. His shoulder bumped James’ as he got a plate out of the cabinet, but James didn’t move away. He seemed oblivious to the fact that he was taking up most of the counter space in front of the pizzas. As John helped himself to a few slices of pineapple and onion, his arm continually brushed against James’ side, and his heart skipped a little at the accidental contact.

“He’s a smart kid,” James agreed, and leaned past John for another slice. Suddenly, John’s mouth was about two inches from the nape of James’ neck. He could smell the man over the pizza: musky and clean and warm.

James smelled pretty nice without rat gunk all over him.

He was also taking his sweet time getting his pizza, and if John didn’t move away right now he was going to have an impulse control problem and do something stupid. Slightly dizzy and more than a little confused, he reached for his plate so he could go sit down. James, of course, picked that moment to straighten again, and their lips grazed across each other with just enough pressure that John couldn’t pretend it hadn’t happened.

“Sorry!” he blurted. In his haste to step back, he almost fell over. James saved him at the last moment, shooting out a hand to catch John’s elbow and steady him. His eyes were amused.

“Gee, Johnny. This is all so sudden.”

“I didn’t—it’s just—you backed up and I was trying to get my—”

“Dude, chill. I’m kidding.” Releasing John’s elbow, James picked up the plate John had been reaching for and held it out to him. “You need help carrying this over to the table?” he asked.

There was no condensation in his voice, or pity, or awkwardness: it was just a question. John didn’t get much of that these days, when it seemed like everyone either wanted to nurse him or use him. Although his heart was still pounding at a terrifying speed, most of his own awkwardness dissolved in a rush of gratitude.

“No, I can get it. I’m used to managing on my own.” He offered James something that he hoped looked like a genuine smile. “Thanks, though.”

“No problem,” James answered, handing him the plate. “So, you got anything good to drink around here or what?”

“I, uh.” John ran through the kitchen inventory in his head as he limped over to the table. When he sat down, his grimace was only partly from pain. “I was actually on my way to the store when that thing tried to eat me. But I might have some wine in the pantry.”

Reverend Purdy had brought over a bottle, anyway, and John didn’t remember drinking it, although he supposed he might have given it to Bruce or Sarah. Wine wasn’t really his beverage of choice, especially when it came with strings attached.

“Dining and wining, huh? I’m flattered, really, but just so you know, I don’t put out on the first date.”

“Ha ha,” John said, and then pointed across the kitchen. “Pantry’s over there.”

Cheeks bulging with pizza, James wandered in the direction of John’s finger. When he reached the pantry, he pulled open the door and then bent down out of sight. A moment later, a low whistle floated up above the wall of the kitchen island.

“Oh boy, you were holding out on me, man!” James straightened and held up a bottle of Wild Turkey by the neck. The expression on his face was almost childish in its glee, but John didn’t really notice. He was too preoccupied with the bottle that his guest was holding, and with the memories connected to it.

Sarah had brought the Wild Turkey over as a house warming gift: perhaps in an attempt to reestablish their friendship. John had lost count of the number of nights that they had spent in his dorm room passing one of those bottles back and forth until time dissolved into a blur of alcohol and skin and sweat. He had thanked her for the thought, shoved the Wild Turkey into the back of the pantry, and then done his best to forget about it.

Some of that must have shown on his face because James’ grin faded and he offered, “Or, uh, the wine’s here too if you want.”

“No,” John rasped. He cleared his throat and then, more strongly, said, “That’s fine.”

James went up a few more points in John’s estimation when just shrugged and took John at his word. Putting the bottle down on the counter, he turned and rummaged around through John’s cabinets until he found a couple of glasses and then brought both the glasses and the whiskey over to the table. While James went back for the pizzas, John forced himself to open the Wild Turkey and poured a generous amount into each glass.

James dropped into the seat across from him, putting the pizzas down to one side, and then took one of the drinks. “To not being dead,” he said cheerfully, and then took a deep gulp of whiskey.

It was an odd toast, maybe, but then again, maybe it wasn’t. Car crashes and comas and giant rat things sort of put things in a different perspective.

“Not being dead,” John echoed, and kicked back his own.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Three hours later, two thirds of the bottle was gone and John was well on his way to being drunk. James had drunk even more than him, but as far as John could tell he wasn’t having any trouble holding his liquor: not if he was still coordinated enough to run a quarter over the back of his knuckles while sipping on his drink. And while John had somehow overlooked James’ mouth initially when presented with the whole package, he was having difficulty focusing on anything else now.

James licked his lips as he put his glass back down—quick tease of tongue—and John’s groin tightened. He gripped his own glass more firmly, grateful that it was familiar enough not to confuse him with visions: as usual, he had taken the gloves off to eat and hadn’t ever gotten around to putting them back on again, although he probably should have with James sitting so close. The man was too tempting for either of their sakes.

James kicked John’s foot and John blinked, trying to focus. Had James asked him a question?

“Yo, earth to Johnny.”

“Mmhmm?” John said intelligibly.

James smirked. “Dude, you’re completely trashed, aren’t you?”

Lifting one hand in the air, John brought his thumb and forefinger close together and squinted at them. “Little bit,” he admitted, and then dropped his hand back down onto the table.

Still toying with his quarter, James gave John’s hands a considering look. John was suddenly self-conscious of them: freakish and clumsy. He folded his fingers in, hiding them, and pressed his knuckles against his mostly-empty glass.

“So, how’s that mojo of yours work, anyway?” James asked after a moment. “You touch something, and what?”

“I see things,” John answered. He frowned in concentration as he tried to figure out how best to explain. It was difficult talking about his powers when he was sober: right now, it was sort of like trying to write the entire Book of Revelations on a grain of rice. Still, James had asked, and was watching him steadily with those gorgeous eyes, and so John had to try.

“It’s different every time,” he said finally. “It—sometimes, I’m inside of the vision, and then sometimes I’m outside looking in. Sometimes it’s both, which gets really confusing.”

“Can you control it?”

John laughed. “I wish. That’s why the gloves.” He touched one with his pinky. “They keep me from spending all my life in other people’s heads.”

James nodded and pursed his mouth, which was really distracting. “So, it’s just your hands, right? That’s what the papers said.”

“Pretty,” John agreed, and then managed to add, “Much,” and salvage the comment.

“Good,” James said as he put the coin down on the table with steady deliberateness.

“Good?” John repeated, wrinkling his forehead. “Why’s it—”

And then James slid off his seat and onto the floor between John’s legs.

Suddenly, John’s pants felt about three sizes too small. He seemed to have forgotten how to breathe. “Oh God,” he whispered.

“Relax,” James told him, and licked his lips. “Just sit back and enjoy the ride. And keep your hands to yourself, okay, buddy?”

“Oh God,” John said again.

All of his nerve endings seemed to have taken a sudden dive south, leaving his mind numb and his dick over stimulated to the point of agony. James smirked and rubbed at the swelling bulge inside of John’s pants with one sure hand. Groaning, John shifted his legs wider and ignored the bolt of pain that the movement sent through his hips and thighs. He knew that this wasn’t anything more than a pity blow for the crip, and he’d probably mope over that fact later, but right now he didn’t care. He just wanted James to keep up those rhythmic, steady presses of his palm.

“You gotten any action since the docs let you out, Johnny?” James asked. Considering how much whiskey John had watched him put away, his gaze was far sharper than it should have been.

John wanted to lie—there was a difference between a pity blow and a pathetic one—but he couldn’t manage it. “N-no.”

“We’ll do this right, then,” James assured him, and the hand pressing against John’s cock lifted away and was replaced by the side of James’ face. Peering up through his eyelashes, James dragged his cheek along the inseam of John’s pants like an oversized tomcat marking his territory.

“Jesus,” John swore under his breath.

Humor and mischief briefly sharpened James’ gaze, and then he turned his head to the side and bit down delicately. John clung to the table with white-knuckled hands as a wave of heat washed over him. His eyes fluttered shut without his permission and his head fell back. James was mouthing at his cock now, the pull-tug of his mouth moving from the base up toward the head, and John wasn’t going to be able to last much longer.

“Please,” he blurted. “I’m going to—”

James immediately lifted his head and shoved the heel of his hand firmly against John’s crotch. For a moment, John thought he was going to come anyway, but then his right leg, stressed by his attempts to accommodate James’s broad shoulders, cramped up. He let out a sharp hiss and bit his cheek hard enough to taste blood.

“You okay?” James asked as he trailed his hand down John’s spasming thigh.

No. God no. But damned if he was going to admit to it.

“Yeah,” he choked out.

The corner of James’ mouth twitched up. “Bullshit,” he said. Shifting up, he put both hands on John’s thigh and then dug his thumbs in.

This time, John couldn’t help screaming.

“Relax, dude,” James told him. “I know what I’m doing.”

It felt like James was trying to rip John’s bone out through his leg, actually, and John would have told him to stop if he could have gotten enough air. As it was, all he could do was cling to the table and try to keep from passing out. James was muttering to himself: a steady flow of words that washed over John in a red wave.

“Where are you, you son of a bitch? Come on, baby … come to daddy … come on, you little cocksucker, fucking—yatzee!”

Pain exploded across John’s vision in a starburst of white and then, mercifully, faded. Sweating and shaking, he slumped back in his chair. James’ hands were still working the damaged tissue of John’s thigh, but the kneading of his fingers had gentled into something that felt almost as good as the cramp had hurt moments before.

“Better?” James murmured.

John nodded, voiceless, and James’ hands continued to work their magic. Eventually, when John could manage it, he said, “How did you … do that …”

Without stopping, James answered, “My kid brother, the one I told you about? He got a little banged up a few years ago. My dad was, uh, between jobs, so we didn’t really have any insurance. I knew we weren’t gonna be able to stick around long enough for him to finish up PT, so I took care of it.” When James glanced up, he was grinning. “You wouldn’t believe the things physical therapists are capable of. Almost as good as yoga instructors.”

“Uh huh,” John said, and then let out a soft moan as James’ hands slid from the meat of his thigh back to his cock.

“You still up for this?” James asked, as if he couldn’t feel John’s cock filling again beneath his fingers.

“Oh God yes.”

James let out a soft snicker. “Guess it _has_ been a long time, huh?” Despite the amusement in his gaze, there was no censure in the question.

Flushing, John answered, “I, uh, I’ve never, you know, with a man before.”

One of James’ eyebrows quirked. “Been missing out, dude. I mean, not that I don’t love pussy, but chicks, they don’t know. What feels good.” His voice had dropped, gravelly and intimate, and if his hand hadn’t been holding John in check, then he would have come right there. “Guys? They know how to make it feel so good it hurts.”

“Show me,” John begged. “Show me, please.”

James gave him another slow smile and then, with teasing deliberateness, pulled John’s zipper down. John groaned as the man’s fingers slipped into the opening and traced across the front of his boxers.

“Boxers man, huh?” James noted. “To be honest, I figured you for more of a tightie whitie kinda guy.”

“I need the room,” John answered. His breath hitched as James pushed his hand in further and found what it was looking for. Thank God Bruce had convinced him that looser pants would be easier on his healing legs. Otherwise, they’d be struggling to get his jeans off right now instead of getting on with the show. He bit his lower lip as James finally pulled his cock free: head spinning both from the alcohol and his own arousal.

“You weren’t kidding you need the room,” James said, circling the base of John’s cock and then dragging his hand down to the tip. John felt his cock twitch in James’ hand, felt the drag of the man’s calluses against his sensitive skin, and knew that James was right.

He had _definitely_ been missing out.

“So,” James said. “I’ll show you how it’s done and then you can return the favor if you feel up to the challenge. No obligations, though.”

The words were practiced enough to jar John out of the moment a little and he looked down at James more carefully. “I’m not,” he said, and then had to pause to breathe as James did something absolutely wonderful to the head of his cock with his thumb. When he could speak again, he finished in a rush: “You don’t need to do this. If you need a place to stay, you’ve got one.”

James snorted. “Dude, I saved your life. If I wanted to stay here tonight, I would. Just so happens I’m a little drunk, and a lot horny, and you’re convenient. No offense.”

“None t-taken,” John gasped out, twitching his hips forward as best as he could manage and sliding his cock through James’ hand. Tilting his head, James massaged the crown with his thumb. The practiced movement left John even more lightheaded than before.

“Besides,” James added, “You seem like a nice guy, and you’ve got great eyes. And, apparently, a huge cock, which is definitely a bonus. Now, how about we get this show on the road before I come in your pants?”

“Yeah. Yeah, okangh.” John choked on the word as James’ tongue darted out to lap at the head of his cock. He’d had blowjobs before, of course, but they were few and far between. Sarah _(Jesus, don’t think about her now)_ was never very good at them, for all her other charms. She couldn’t get her jaw open wide enough to manage.

Somehow, John didn’t think that James was going to have that problem.

James’ eyes were closed as he edged forward and took the tip of John’s cock inside his mouth. It was a tease of the worst sort: too intense pressure on the sensitive head while the rest of John ached for attention and release. He couldn’t stop himself from moaning as James swirled his tongue over the tip of his cock again and again.

James seemed to be enjoying this as well, if the noises he was making—wet and hungry—were any indication. He dove forward without warning, taking John’s cock deep into his mouth and then down his throat and oh. Oh Jesus. So _that_ was what deep throating felt like. Lost in the tightwethot clutch of James’ throat, John whited out for a few seconds, and when he came back to himself his hands were in James’ hair.

He had time to think, _oh cra—_ , and then images slammed into him.

Fire. Fire and smoke and a screaming baby and a man’s broad shadow. He watched as a tiny, blond-haired boy grew taller and harder. Watched the broad man _(Dad)_ put a gun in the boy's hand and teach him to pull the trigger. He watched the baby _(SammySamSam)_ grow into an awkward and angry youth, a youth who had a penchant for ordering pineapple and onions on his pizza, and then the Sam in the memory turned and looked at him and John was standing in a darkened room.

It was else _where_ , but he didn’t think it was else _when_. There was a bed in front of him and a young man was sleeping in it. The man’s hair was longer and his body had filled out, but he was still recognizable as the youth _(Sammy)_ from a moment ago. John stood there, shocked by the strength and the unexpected nature of the vision, and then the man’s eyes opened. Impossibly, they fastened on John and he found himself looked at and _through_ and then he was back in his own body.

And he wasn’t alone.

 _Oh_ , the invader moaned in his head. _Oh God, **Dean**._ There was so much longing in the voice, and so much hunger, that John couldn’t concentrate enough to fight as the invader came forward and pushed him out of the way. He could still feel James'—no, _Dean_ ’s—mouth, sloppy and eager on his cock, but he wasn’t in control anymore.

 _Dean,_ the invader moaned again, and John’s hand tightened in Dean’s hair.

 _Who are you?_ John demanded, trying to orient himself amidst the rush of emotions.

 _Sam,_ the invader answered absently. _I’m Sam._ John watched his hands as they slid down from Dean’s hair to cup his face in an intimate and treasuring gesture. _I’m dreaming,_ Sam added.

John felt like he was missing something here, but too many puzzle pieces had been shoved at him at once, and he was finding it difficult to think when someone else was inside his body: in his _head_. Sam, whoever he was, had a presence so strong it was almost physical, and a love so desperate and boundless that it was threatening to drown John’s consciousness completely.

Dean pulled back until only the head of John’s cock was left in his mouth and then immediately pushed forward again. Sam fragmented in John’s mind: pleasure ripping through that overwhelming personality and sending stray pieces ricocheting around like bullets. John took a few direct hits and reeled, struck by sudden realization.

Pineapples and onion.

Stanford.

Sammy.

Brother.

Oh God, Sam was Dean’s _brother_.

John knew he should be sickened by the knowledge, but he wasn’t. Too much of Sam was bleeding into him—hero worship and disdain and anger and longing all at once—and John didn’t feel anything but desire. He clung to his own mind with difficulty, buffeted on all sides by Sam’s consuming need, and rode it out as best as he could.

“Dean,” Sam said with John’s voice, worshipful, and the wet heat left his cock immediately. Dean’s lightly-stubbled cheek scraped away from his palms.

“Fuck,” he rasped, looking up with wide, shocked eyes. “Jesus, John, you weren’t supposed to touch.”

Sam hesitated at that, finally catching a hint that something was off, and then fumbled cautiously for John’s mind. They touched with a shock that echoed through John’s body and Sam reeled away. A moment later, he was back again: voice deafeningly loud and fast enough that the words tripped over each other.

 _Shit! Oh, shit, man, I’m sorry. Where—what’s happening? Who are you?_

 _My name’s John Smith,_ John answered, and his awareness of Dean and of his own body faded as the connection between him and Sam strengthened. He could almost see the young man: fox-eyed and shaggy haired and anxious. _I’m a psychic, but this—well, this sort of thing hasn’t ever happened to me before._

 _Join the fucking club,_ Sam answered, sounding way less freaked out by the fact that he was in someone else’s body and being blown by his brother than John thought he should have been. There was even a hint of a smile in his voice as he amended, _Well, not the psychic part, but this is definitely—oh **fuck**. _

Sam’s attention faltered and, as his body came back online, John realized that Dean’s mouth was back on his cock. Looked as though Dean had decided that he would finish what he had started, since the damage had already been done.

 _I’m—I’m s-sorry,_ Sam stammered in John’s direction as he edged back toward the surface. _But this is my only chance to have this, and I—we’ll figure out what’s happening later._

As John’s awareness trailed after Sam’s, he slowly became aware that he wasn’t in the chair anymore. Instead, he was lying on the table with his pants completely off on one side and dangling from his ankle on the other. His legs were sprawled wide enough that he wasn’t going to be able to move much further than the foot of the bed tomorrow, and Dean was standing between them. Dean was bent almost in half as he sucked at the head of John’s cock, doing incredible things with his lips and his tongue, and oh Jesus Christ those were Dean’s _fingers_ in John’s ass.

“Dean,” Sam moaned, using John’s hands to pat at his brother’s head clumsily.

Dean pulled off of John’s cock and straightened. His fingers slid out of John’s ass and curled around his hips a moment later, slick and warm. Dean’s eyes were dark—forest green instead of lime—and the smile he offered wouldn’t have been at all comforting even if John had been alone in his head.

“Gonna fuck you, Johnny,” Dean growled. “Gonna teach you to keep your hands to yourself.”

“Fuck, yeah,” Sam groaned with John’s voice, and then wrapped John’s legs around Dean’s waist. Dean was still wearing the sweatpants he had borrowed, but he was hard beneath the fabric, and Sam rubbed John’s ass against his brother’s erection. He rolled John’s hips _(Bruce was going to kill John on Monday, if these two didn't manage it first)_ and made a desperate, mewling noise.

Dean pushed the sweats down and his erection sprang free to nudge against John’s ass. John was close enough to the surface to notice that Dean wasn’t exactly a small guy either, and he wanted to be nervous, but Sam’s hunger tumbled around him and through him and into him. The connection between them was open enough for John to know that Sam had done this sort of thing before, although not with Dean, and that he’d enjoyed it. He also knew that what Sam really wanted to do was to bend Dean down over John’s counter and fuck him until he couldn’t think straight, and he knew that Sam wasn’t going to try it.

Sam wasn't going to try it because he knew that his brother didn’t bottom: Dean didn’t trust strangers enough to let them touch him like that.

 _I love him,_ Sam confessed to John apologetically. _I love him so much and he—he doesn’t. Not like this. So I’m sorry, but I need this, just this one time. It won’t hurt, I promise. He’ll make it good: he always makes it good._

There were memories behind Sam’s words: dozens of hours spent pretending to sleep while Dean jerked off in the next bed, or listening to the sound of a stranger’s breathy cries while Dean fucked him one room over, or watching Dean’s shadowy figure as he pumped into some small town barfly in the backseat of the car. There were enough memories to drive John half-insane with longing, and so he focused through the tide: peering out onto the here and now.

Dean was bent over him again, rutting his cock against John’s groin while his fingers slid in and out of John’s ass. He was more beautiful than ever, sweat trickling down his neck and chest and plump lips slightly parted, and John didn’t need the driving impetus of Sam’s emotions to make him want this.

And he did want this. He wanted Dean to fuck him: wanted to feel the spreading burn when Dean’s cock pushed inside of him. Right now, he was able to see what was going on and feel the outer edges of sensation, and that was all.

It wasn’t enough.

 _Please,_ he begged, throwing away whatever shreds of dignity he had possessed. _Please, let me feel it. Let me feel him._

Sam hesitated, obviously reluctant to share this moment, and John felt a faint flutter of anger in the midst of the alien flood of emotion.

 _It’s my body,_ he insisted.

Grudgingly, Sam reached toward him. This time, when their minds met they slid into one another and merged in a confusing swirl of memory and images. It wasn't a seamless joining, but it was close enough that John couldn't really tell where either of them left off anymore.

As Dean’s fingers pulled roughly out of him, JohnSam tossed back his head. His ass burned from the stretching, but he felt horribly empty. Sam’s memories told him just how good it would feel when something pushed inside to take that emptiness away.

Dean gripped JohnSam’s hip with one hand while lining himself up with the other. “You want this, Johnny?” he panted, pinning JohnSam with storm dark eyes. “You want me to fuck you?”

“Yes,” JohnSam whispered. “God, please.”

Dean’s lips twisted into a smirk and he pushed forward.

JohnSam gasped as he was filled again. He trembled at the foreign _(familiar)_ sensation of something warm and thick pushing inside. That first slide did burn, just as JohnSam had known it would, but it also felt too good for that to matter.

"Fucking tight," Dean grunted, and then started to move.

It wasn’t rough, but it wasn’t gentle either. Mindful of John's earlier muscle spasm, Dean was being careful with his body. As he searched for a suitable rhythm, his fingers played over the ropey lines of scar tissue on JohnSam’s flanks. All the attention felt wonderful, but there wasn’t any real sense of connection in the touch and it left JohnSam’s chest aching. He wanted to tell Dean who he was, and knew that he couldn’t, and so he had to settle for touching every bit of skin he could reach.

JohnSam’s hands moved across the scars that John had wondered at before and Sam’s memories filled in the blanks for him _(ghost in Burlington; werewolf in Charleston; poltergeist in Cleveland)_. Every touch was a confirmation that Dean was still alive, that he was safe, and the moans that fell from JohnSam’s lips were meant as prayers of thanksgiving to whatever deity was watching over him.

Dean mouthed at JohnSam’s neck while they fucked, but wouldn’t kiss him, and JohnSam knew better than to try. If the John part of him had been a girl, he would have been able to do it, but Dean didn’t make a habit of kissing the men. Knowing that didn’t make the longing go away, of course, and JohnSam couldn’t keep himself from sobbing out Dean’s name over and over as Dean fucked into him.

An hour or a minute after that first push in, Dean wrapped one hand around JohnSam’s cock and started to stroke him. “Come on, baby: come for me,” Dean urged, and JohnSam wasn’t going to be able to refuse. He felt his climax approaching and dragged his hands up from Dean’s tapered hips and across his chest. The knuckles of his right hand accidentally bumped against the amulet hanging from Dean’s neck and John was jolted sideways by a solar flare of time and light.

This time, he was inside the vision: standing in a doorway of a bedroom he’d never seen before. He knew without having to look in a mirror that he was in Dean’s body because he could _feel_ Dean all around him, all hard edges and hurt and love, and Dean was watching Sam pack. Sam was packing for Stanford, he was leaving for college—leaving Dean—and although Dean’s face wasn’t giving anything away, his chest felt like it had been shredded. The sensation was naggingly familiar, and after a few moments of watching Sam shove balled up t-shirts into his bag, John realized why.

Dean’s chest felt the same way that John’s had when he realized Sarah was married.

Then John’s orgasm hit, jerking him back into his body. Dean grunted, thrusting hard and fast as John’s dick spurted over his hand, and Sam was finally receding as he was pulled back the long miles to his own body.

 _No!_ he shouted, fighting to stay where he was. _Dean. Dean, **please**._

He was gone before John could regain enough cohesion to share what he had learned, and then Dean was shuddering out his own orgasm. Dean’s incredibly long eyelashes fluttered while his muscles bunched and flexed. He thrust in four more times and then bowed forward with a groan. His forehead slipped across John's stomach: spikes of hair sweat-damp and cool. After taking a few moments to rest, he lifted up again and eased gingerly out of John.

“Well," he muttered, leaning one hand against the edge of the table, "That was intense."

John looked up at him, winded from both the sex and whatever had happened between him and Sam, and continued to gasp for breath.

“You okay?” Dean prodded as he ran an assessing hand up John's thigh.

“Yeah,” John managed. “Yeah, I—yeah.”

“Can you walk?”

John tried to move his legs and winced at the expected burst of pain. “Maybe in a few minutes.”

“Kay,” Dean said. His hand was still moving restlessly over John’s skin. As he traced along the thickest surgery scar, which ran all the way from John’s hipbone to his knee, he added, “So, I was thinking a hot shower might help this a little. Then maybe another massage. And then bed.”

‘Bed,’ John noticed. Not ‘sleep’.

“If you’re game.”

Good lord, John didn’t know which part of the offer was more appealing: the massage or a repeat performance, this time with no confusing passenger. He knew that he should tell Dean about his brother and what had just happened, but enough of Sam’s knowledge remained that he also understood what a phenomenally bad idea that would be. There were more delicate ways to deal with this situation, and tomorrow John would figure out what they were.

Tomorrow he would also call Stanford Directory Assistance and get the number for a Samuel Winchester. Then he would make a long distance phone call, and he and Sam could have a conversation about lost loves and chances that hadn’t yet slipped away.

Tonight, though … Tonight, Dean was his.

“Sounds great,” he agreed, sitting up. “You think you could help me upstairs?”

Dean used the arm around John’s waist as an excuse to toy with his aching ass on their way up the stairs, but somehow John couldn’t find it in himself to complain.


End file.
